


The Stories People Tell

by highreaches



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Coital Nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 12:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2582210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highreaches/pseuds/highreaches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Garrett Hawke is ridiculous, and Fenris is unfortunately in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stories People Tell

Fenris supposed he ought to be ashamed of himself. In years past, he'd proudly declared that he was the only person in Kirkwall with the ability to think coolly, rationally, and with as much inclination towards common sense as could be allowed (this statement was highly debated amongst his companions, particularly because they had all either witnessed or been on the receiving end of his tempestuous brooding; Fenris, however, considered this inadmissible evidence because they'd all more or less deserved it). But for all his boasting, any practicality Fenris maintained had become utterly useless in the wake of one Garrett Hawke, who was apparently quite skillful in destroying any reasonable thought and replacing it with all manner of fanciful, romantic, and most often ridiculous notions. 

And the biggest shock of all was that Fenris couldn't really bring himself to care. It was his own fault, anyway. Falling in love was supposed to do away with rationality, wasn't it? Because here he was, sprawled atop the Champion of Kirkwall, sweaty and sated and grinning like a fool, perfectly contented to do so. It wasn't the sort of personal development he'd thought he needed, but Fenris was willing to accept it as it was.

Beneath him, Hawke looked incredibly pleased with himself, as usual. It was the sort of expression Fenris felt duty bound to kiss away. And he did. Thoroughly. In fact, he would have been very happy to conclude the evening in this fashion had he not suddenly become aware of Hawke muttering something that sounded suspiciously like numbers against his lips.

Fenris leaned back, eyes narrowed. “Are you…counting?”

Hawke blinked. “I can do it more quietly if you like.”

“I’m more curious as to why you’re doing it at all.”

Hawke looked as though he was about to make up something absurd to explain the whole thing, to which Fenris responded with firmly crossed arms and a reproachful stare. It would’ve been more effective, he realized, had he not been very naked and straddling Hawke’s hips in a manner all too similar to that which was depicted on the cover of Varric’s first edition of _Hard in Hightown_. 

“Should I be frightened or aroused?” Hawke asked. Fenris had to admit that it was a reasonable question given the circumstances.

“That depends on your answer, I think.”

Hawke smiled at him innocently. “I am merely attempting to stay true to Varric’s storytelling.”

Fenris grunted in disapproval. “I can’t believe people are still buying copies of that nonsense.”

“You didn’t seem to mind when I first suggested adding it to our reading list.” Hawke traced a thin line of lyrium across Fenris’s thigh in an obvious effort to be seductive. “What he lacks in narrative structure, he certainly makes up for in creativity.”

“The last time we attempted to recreate one of his stories, we tore your bed curtains and spilled melted chocolate all over the pillowcases.” 

Fenris had intended to say this with a glare, but he couldn’t help smiling at the memory of it. Laughter, they’d discovered that disastrous evening, was a much-welcome companion in the bedroom.

“Not one of our finest moments,” Hawke conceded, but the playful glint in his eyes made it rather obvious that he was already planning their next - and hopefully more successful - attempt. "But reenacting Varric’s masterpieces is the least we can do now that we’re getting such a generous cut of the profit.”

Generous was a strong word, but Fenris couldn't pretend he minded the extra coin Varric's atrocious smut was putting in his pocket. Mercenary work was all well and good, but if he could manage to afford a few bottles of imported wine (Fenris was stubbornly loyal to his favored Orlesian blends no matter what Isabela said) without having to rip out a few hearts to do so, even better. Hawke appreciated this as well, especially since they'd recently discovered the Hanged Man was possibly flavoring its ales with water from the docks. Nothing had been proven yet, but they certainly weren't taking any chances. 

“And this has nothing to do with the fact that all of his stories involve us engaging in various degrees of depraved carnal activity?” Fenris asked wryly. 

“If by ‘depraved carnal activity’ you mean ‘passionate and deeply emotional lovemaking’,” said Hawke, “Then, yes.”

Fenris snorted. “So why the counting?”

“Clearly you haven’t read the most recent installment.” Hawke leaned back against the headboard and spread out his palms as if he was delivering a divine benediction in the Chantry. “I believe the closing line went something like: _And in that single evening of blazing passion, the Champion and his elven lover shared one thousand breathless kisses, each more searing than the last_.”

“One thousand? That seems rather excessive.”

“It’s dramatic literature, Fenris. Of course it’s excessive.”

“Hm.” Fenris leaned forward to tuck a lock of unruly hair behind Hawke’s ear. “And how many ‘breathless kisses’ have we shared this particular evening?”

“Nearly forty, I think. But I can’t be certain. I lost count when you started swearing in Tevene - you know what that does to me.”

“Ah, so that leaves us with nine thousand, nine hundred and sixty kisses remaining,” Fenris concluded with a smirk. “A lofty goal.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Hawke, already edging closer. “I’m feeling rather ambitious.”

Fenris hummed in agreement. “And we mustn’t disappoint Varric.”

“Perish the thought.” 

Fenris laughed and at last opened his arms in invitation. “Come here, mage,” he said fondly. “It seems we have our work cut out for us.”

Hawke went to him eagerly, already prepared with a sly joke about _hard_ work. But before he could finish the wretched pun, Fenris gave his mouth something much better to do. 

“Forty-one,” Hawke murmured, lips curling into a soft smile against Fenris’s.

“And counting,” Fenris whispered back.


End file.
